Chasing Shadows
by Sweeney B
Summary: Jason Drake is content with a life of womanising, drinking and murdering. But when his past enters his present, his entire world is torn apart.
1. First Shadows

**Hello good reader, I feel I must apologise for the abomination you are about to read. I have only read book 1 of the Night Angel Trilogy (I am trying to secure the rest) and I am a poor writer overall. You have been warned ;) **

**Credit due to Brent Weeks for creating the Night Angel Trilogy; I own none of the material.**

He had been like them once. The ordinary folk, trudging through their insular, paltry lives like sheep, unaware that wolves like him even existed. He stood atop a grandiose old building in the morning sun, a figure dressed in black as if fashioned from shadows, green eyes flashing from under his hood that covered his lengthy dark brown hair. As Jason Drake glared across the city of Cenaria from his perch high above the milling crowds below, he considered what he'd be like if he wasn't a wetboy. That Jason would be nothing compared to what he was now. The thought passed and he dropped the next roof silently, stalking his ignorant prey. He had a contract to fulfil and a deader to find.

The target was, in fact, an ancient priest from Ossein. Jason didn't know why the client wanted him dead, and frankly he didn't care – all that mattered to him was that he eliminated the target and he received his payment. He found the elderly priest outside his temple to the One God, preaching to the silent masses arranged before him in the plaza. "Damn sheep" Jason hissed under his breath as he crouched on a nearby rooftop, drew a heavy crossbow of darkened wood and took aim. The priest must have been in his seventies easily, his wispy white hair clinging to his head in futile protest against the ravages of time and his rather modest and plain robes swayed slightly in the thin breeze as the aged orator tended to his flock. Jason flashed a killer smile as he drew the bolt back into the firing position. Easiest money he'd made in a long while. The priest turned suddenly, and Jason froze. The last thing he needed was an imperfect shot. After all, wetboys don't miss. He drew on the Talent, focusing his eyesight like a raptor focusing on a rabbit as he searched for the reason for his target's distraction.

A young woman stepped out from the chapel and whispered in the ear of the priest. Jason lowered the crossbow and considered this fresh situation. The woman was young, maybe in her twenties, with curly brown locks and almost golden eyes. She reminded Jason of a woman he had known in his earlier life, before he was a wetboy. No wait… Jason squinted as he scanned her with analytic precision. It was her. He thought his old life had gone; he had renounced that squalid existence and her in particular. And now she was back. He snarled, took aim and fired. The bolt punched through the priest's upper back, continued through his heart and carried on, embedding itself in the wall behind. The priest fell to the stone floor without a sound and as his body hit the ground, all hell broke loose in the plaza. The crowd metamorphosed from a silent, transfixed audience to a fear crazed horde and all it had taken was a single, perfect shot from a peerless killer. Jason smiled darkly again, and leapt from the roof, using his Talent to cushion the fall. He landed with a small grunt, and prowled away, unaware that a pair of golden, feminine eyes were trained on him.

A few hours' time found Jason in the Blue Boar, arguably the finest brothel in Cenaria City. Of course, that depends on who you ask. While the wetboy didn't really have a taste for the wine that had become one of the Boar's pillars, he was interested in the other foundation; the women. A cut above the day walkers that blighted the lower areas of Cenaria, Jason knew all of them and while some had fetishes too debauched even for a man of his nature, he had found brief windows of superficial happiness within these walls. But a killer has no friends, only targets. That was the code of a wetboy, their one and only rule. Kill the target, maintain your reputation and stay alive. All other rules are beneath a wetboys concern. Jason had followed these rules, this black code of conduct since he had turned his back on his old life, never to return. Until the golden eyed girl had turned up again. Jason drained a goblet of wine and thought to himself. She would never recognize him. And if she did, she'd soon be far, far away. Their last meeting, nearly a decade ago had ended badly after Jason had lied to her. But those days were gone, and he lived for now. Jason set down the goblet, spat out the remnants of the weak wine and followed a red-haired whore upstairs. He had been paid handsomely; now the task remained to spend his blood tainted coin.


	2. Best Served Cold

Well I'm writing this while hooked up to a wide variety of drugs because I came off my motorbike in an accident and a particularly pathetic little girl has remarked that I'm lying, presumably for attention. The following story was done under the influence as it were, you have been warned. I am attempting to move away from the cliché plotline a little. Comments and reviews would be most welcome. Thank you to all my readers, may you have the best of luck in all that you do.

The Night Angel Trilogy belongs to Brent Weeks; I own none of the material.

Jason awoke to shouted threats and hissing steel as blades were drawn. He sprang out of bed, reaching instinctively for a knife that wasn't there, but instead was lying across the room with the rest of his equipment and his clothes. Suddenly guards burst into the room, drawing screams from the whores inhabiting the bed. Jason reacted instantaneously, leaping towards the window, the shards from the broken glass raining down on the alarmed crowds that had drawn to the commotion. Jason landed on the adjacent roof, already moving and dodging the laughably inaccurate arrows. He glanced over his shoulder, and growled. The golden eyed woman was pointing at him, shouting at the guards presumably to kill him. He growled before dropping down to ground level and wrapping himself in shadows, making his way to the lair of the Sa'kage to meet an old friend.

"Gwen, she must die. She knows who and where I am, somehow. I can't afford that" Jason prowled up and down like a caged tiger, itching to lash out at anything to sate his blood thirst. "Jason, there is a fine line between retribution and revenge. Which side of the coin are you on?" To punctuate her point, the whore flipped a gunder, caught it and repeated. "Fine. Crowns, she dies. Castles, she lives." Jason snarled, and his hand blurred as he lunged with Talent- enhanced speed. He opened his hand to reveal the golden coin. "Crowns. Guess that's just bad luck." Gwen glared at him, the prostitute spitting at him violently "You cheated. You used the Talent to alter the drop. This is about revenge, not retribution. You're nothing but a black hearted butcher, Jason Drake". She slapped his face and stormed down a tunnel, leaving Jason in the Sa'kage lair alone. He spun quickly on his heel and disappeared into the darkness.

The crowded tavern did little to abate Jason's sour mood, even the usual remedy of excessive alcohol did nothing to lift his black spirits. A dark shadow in the corner of the room, he absently considered how many of these worthless sheep he could slaughter before they realised the situation, or more likely, before the blood-letting would reward his violence with a respite from this feeling of betrayal. Damn that bitch. He was not a butcher, not like Hu Gibbert, the infamous wetboy who saw human life as even more expendable than other wetboys. But Jason saw his point, now in his grim temperament. When we take a life, we are not taking anything of value. Love is a noose, and lovers will only betray you. He drained his glass of cheap beer, paid the innkeeper (noticing the fear in the short man's eyes) and stepping out into the cold night. "Oi, you! Stop right there!" Jason's eyes narrowed and he turned sharply to see three guards pointing their halberds at him. "You're wanted for multiple counts of murder, theft and lawlessness, mate" the lead guard spoke with a bold voice with a thick Alitaeran accent, but Jason could pick out the small cues of terror on each guard – sweat, even on a frosty night, a slight twitch as they recognised they stood before a hell-spawned demon, if the stories about Jason were to be believed and their weapons shook faintly as they kept their eyes locked on a man who was the very image of death. Jason smirked and turned back. "I don't have time for this".

"You'll have plenty of bloody time when you're dead, you bastard!" The lead guard lunged at Jason's exposed back. Faster than the guard could follow, Jason spun and slapped the weapon aside, following up with a low kick to the man's knee, feeling it break beneath his heavy boot. The guard dropped to the floor, screaming and cursing, while his compatriots froze in shock. Jason sprang forward, striking the second guard's throat with outstretched fingers, crushing his windpipe before dodging the clumsy blow of the third guard. Before the man could recover, the wetboy pounced, moving inside the halberd's range and snapping his painfully outmatched adversary's neck with a swift and auditory snap. Jason knelt and hefted a halberd in his left hand, walking towards the first guard, who was attempting to crawl away from the battle scene. He turned to face his murderer. "The whole town guard will hunt you down, Shadowstrider. You'll be dead by dawn." The murderer smiled a sinister smile and replied casually "Then I guess I'll kill them too." The guard's panicked retort was cut short as Jason swung the halberd down in a gory arc and severed the man's head from his body.

Blades of every description lay arranged on the wide wall in front of the man who had killed with every single one. Jason stood in his armoury, selecting the weapons he'd use to kill each guard that had dared try to kill him with silent precision. A Ceuran hand and half sword strapped to his back. A bandolier of poisoned throwing knives. Two foot long bollock daggers on his hip. A thick shiv tied to his left boot. His masterfully crafted crossbow. Satisfied with his choice of armament, he stalked upstairs, out of his basement into the small house in a low key, but still upper class alley overlooking the Warrens, belonging to the mysterious brother of the equally shadowy Count Rimbold Drake who had been away to the island empire of Seth for some time now. Jason checked and rechecked his equipment before opening the back door and vanishing into the night like a ghost.

Dawn rose on Cenaria, drying the spilt blood and warming cold, dead flesh. A pair of blades gleamed in the fresh sunlight, their once spotless appearance now marred with blood and viscera. Jason slid the daggers back into their sheaths and strode away from a scene from the depths of Hell. Bodies lay across the barracks like fallen leaves, and a crimson river flowed liberally across the stone floor. Flies had already begun to swarm, a dark cloud covering the cooling corpses, and ravens flocked outside like living gargoyles. Jason stepped outside to find the golden eyed whore staring at him, hatred in her eyes, surrounded by the few guards he hadn't had time to kill yet, roused by the screams of those who had witnessed his massacre. He smiled darkly, drew his crossbow and fired.


	3. That Which Is Lost

**The Night Angel Trilogy belongs to Brent Weeks; I own none of the material**

The Blue Boar's regular jovial attitude permeated the room; the men and women in attendance forgetting their myriad troubles with drunkenness and debauchery. Jason had no interest in the latter for a reason unbeknownst to him; he felt… Empty. Hazy recollections surfaced like the leviathans of the oceans, the kill shot… Or what he thought was the kill shot. He hadn't actually seen a corpse hit the floor, he had had to make his escape but he had ascended to his lofty heights of infamy because he didn't miss. An alien feeling was also radiating through his body; regret. He felt regret. Wetboys, at least of his calibre, didn't feel anything. They just acted, the singularity of their purpose erasing emotional consequences of their bloody actions. Wetboys don't feel what he felt now. He felt weak and vulnerable, and not even training to the point of self-destruction was lifting his spirits. He needed a mission, a target, anything to release his inner demons in the crucible of murder. He needed a fight, for the other option that could console him was almost certainly lost forever.

The light gleamed off the dagger as a deathly figure twirled it with his gloved hand. His green eyes glinted in the gloom and his senses were as sharp as the weapon he was toying with. He had sat cross-legged in his chamber for a few days now, waiting for a contract. Waiting for a purpose. Something, anything, to take his mind off her. He growled, this vulnerability sickened him to the core. Why did she still bother him? Even when she was lost to him forever, ghosts still flickered through his conscious and sub-conscious alike. At times he didn't care, but at times he really did. He snarled again and cursed every deity he knew, he could not afford this turmoil. It distracted him from his purpose, from the business of death, and he was this city's finest craftsman in that particular area. The dagger completed its aerial dance and returned to his hand. Green eyes glared into the darkness as a decision was made. He rose slowly and deliberately and stalked out of his lair, a spectral shadow devoid of features besides a pair of emerald orbs and a shining silver blade facing the cold, uncaring world that he ruled from the darkness, a wolf presiding over the ignorant herd of Cenaria. For the first time since his butchery of the guards, and the girl, he smiled a macabre smile and a single, resonant thought echoed through his savage mind. Time to find someone to kill.

The unlucky soul in question was chosen randomly from a wanted board in the less civilised area of town. While he found hunting men the same way as animals questionable, Jason didn't let morals obstruct his blade. Especially not now. He ripped down the first poster that said "Dead or alive" and walked away, scanning the parchment quickly before tossing it aside. Target: Gavin Dufonte. Age: Not Important. Reward: Not Important. Location: Last seen in the company of outlaws in a nearby forest. If one could call the scrawny clumps of trees poking out of the marshes around Cenaria forests. Wanted For: Horse theft, conspiracy for a number of felonies and resisting and evading arrest. Not bad, Jason thought to himself. These were serious charges; he had evaded serious investigation and pursuit to escape justice. So far at least. Unfortunately for him, Fate had decided that his evasion would be in vain. A killer as black as Hell itself now hunted him, Jason rounded a corner and headed towards the portcullis that led out of Cenaria and towards his victim. The Devil will have his due.

A flash of steel flickered in and out of sight as two sentries collapsed to the floor, knives protruding from their empty shells. Jason walked casually in through the main entrance to the decrepit travelling lodge the target was using as a base, and smirked at the assembled rabble. Their panicked eyes shot first to the dead sentries and then to him. Their fear soon vanished when they realised they were under attack from a single man. An amused cry sounded from the killer's target. "It's just one man. You sons of bitches can handle this bastard, right?" The mob snickered and nodded, as a single entity, and gathered a motley assortment of rusty yet cruel weapons to enact their vicious intentions. Jason smirked, and drew his own blade in a faint hiss. The target turned and spat "Something funny?", drawing a dry smile from his murderer. "No, I'm 'deadly' serious, my friend" Jason chuckled, before rushing into the jaws of the crowd, his blade cutting men down like wheat.

Back in his dark chamber, Jason sat cross-legged, eyes closed, differing memories warring for his attention. One of love and affection, one of murder and death. Only one existed for him now, but the deadly flaw still lingered. He'd exorcise it later, when he could figure out how. Whoring and drinking awaited him, interrupted briefly by crimson flashes of arterial blood when his services as a consummate killer were needed.

The night sky was filled with bursts of light and noise as Jason sat on a veranda, admiring the festivities. Some noble whom he didn't recognise was throwing a party to celebrate his daughter's marriage and had brought in the latest 'big thing'; a foreign miracle known as fireworks. Jason didn't know how they worked, and didn't care; he had only been invited only due to his fake title, and had only gone because Gwen had made him promise to keep an eye on the girls who had been hired to provide entertainment for the dirty old men gathered here. At least the drinks were free, he thought bitterly, as his eyes were drawn to the dance floor where the happy couple waltzed. Jason's lip curled into an impromptu snarl and he looked away. He thought back to when he was like that, happy, carefree and dancing with a woman. He had been good at dancing. "Probably still am" he muttered out loud arrogantly. But that, like so many other things, was a distant, fleeting memory. During moments of outer peace, or as close to it as he could get, he wondered whether he would go back to that life if it were offered to him. The answer he arrived at always troubled him. He spat vehemently and drained his drink, wondering as he always did, why the answer was without a doubt, yes.

Cleaning his blades was a monotonous task, yet it brought clarity of mind to Cenaria's most infamous murderer. Its numbing repetitiveness drowned out painful, joyful memories, and replaced them with the more familiar and recent memories of bloodshed. When you live only to kill, you needed perfect blades. No exceptions. Jason stared at the hand-and-half sword, its polished surface reflecting his dark features. His thoughts turned grim as he glared at his mirror image. What good is a perfect blade if the hand holding it is slowed by emotion? Hesitation could cost him a fight, and losing a fight would surely make his life forfeit. Jason drew a breath through the pipe he had become fond of recently, and returned to removing any imperfections from his sword. If only the mind could be cleansed as easily, he pondered grimly.


	4. Til Next We Meet

**Many thanks to anybody reading this drivel. As always, the Night Angel Trilogy belongs to Brent Weeks. Best of luck to you all.**

"Something got you down, friend?" The rotund barman glanced over at the shadow in the corner, as Jason downed yet another pint of cheap beer in a dark tavern on the outskirts of Cenaria. A cursory glare put paid to the unwanted probing, and Jason returned to nursing his drink. Something had got him down indeed. His once flawless record now had a single black mark against it. He had missed his mark; the golden eyed priestess had somehow survived his shot and was now crusading around Cenaria with her enslaved husband proclaiming the evils of prostitution, drink and violence, the pillars of Jason's life. She couldn't try to ruin his life more completely if she'd aimed for him specifically. Of course, that was unlikely; she had forgotten him completely and had only seen an object of revulsion when he'd fired instead of an old memory. Jason finished his last drink, paid his fare, and disappeared into the night. She intrigued him; after all she clearly wasn't scared of him if she was advertising her survival to the entire world. The damage to his dark legend was nothing compared to the blow to his personal pride. Had… emotions caused him to miss his aim? Did he have feelings anymore? Jason had assumed any emotion beyond the thrill of the chase and of the kill had been worn away, leaving only a perfect killer behind. What if he was wrong? What if he still cared? He stalked back to his house, back to his isolation and his private thoughts, back to what might have been, all those years ago.

Gwen smirked at him from her chair, his dark frame devoid of its usual arrogant pose, the polar opposite of her playful posture, her legs crossing in the seductive manner only a woman such as she could pull off. "So let me get this straight hun… You have girl troubles? And you came to a whore for help?" she teased, watching with girlish delight as his arms flexed and he growled in annoyance. "No Gwen, I need to know if I'm getting soft. If I'm having feelings. What with all your 'partners', I figured you'd be an expert on putting aside feelings to get the job done, as it were" Jason snarled back, every syllable a veiled threat. The red-haired prostitute's eyes narrowed as she glared at him, otherwise she ignored his hostility. "Well, you're as violent as ever, so I wouldn't worry", she spat back, turning to an ornate desk and retrieving a letter from it. "Speaking of which, you're needed by someone" she threw the letter at him, only feeling mild irritation as he plucked it from the air calmly, and read it. "This says I'm going to be away for years, all across Midcryu. Are you going to be able to survive without me?" His sarcasm stung Gwen, but her response hit him harder. "That's ok you bastard, you always leave women…" Any further remark was halted as Jason spun on his heel and exited the room, slamming the door viciously as he left without a word.


	5. What Lies Beneath The Surface

**Based loosely on a conversation so I apologise for the lack of action, it'll pick up soon. Thanks to any reviewers. The Night Angel Trilogy belongs to Brent Weeks.**

**- Edit : Name changed from Black to the correct name, Drake. Thanks to pheonlynx for finding my mistake -**

Gwen stepped tentatively into the gothic household belonging to Jason Drake, ignoring the splintered door and followed the trail of destruction to a room strewn with broken bottles and heavy with the stench of drink. "Jason… I can't keep up with you. And you're drinking too much." Jason looked up at her with blood-shot eyes and offered a weak grunt in her direction. "This is about her, isn't it Jason?" She sat down next to him and took the bottle from him. "I'm not letting you kill yourself over this woman, Jason. She doesn't love you. Accept it, grow up and move on. This isn't like you." He sighed and made a grab for the bottle, but Gwen threw it across the room. It smashed against the wall and the cloudy liquid pooled on the floor like a bloodstain. Jason growled quietly, but his friend crossed her arms and ignored it. "Jason, leave her alone. She's happy, don't you want that? Besides, do you really think you could make her happy with what you are now?" His green eyes glared at her blue ones. He nodded solemnly, and reached for another bottle of cheap beer. Gwen slapped his hand away from it angrily, and sighed heavily. "Jason, are you going to talk to me about this? You know you can never be with her. And I know you; you're usually more pragmatic than this. Why are you still after what is out of reach?"

The night air was cold and unforgiving when Gwen stepped out into the street. She had left Jason asleep in the bedroom, after the galleons of alcohol had overpowered his rugged constitution. The answers he had given her had left her confused and not overly satisfied, but she knew them to be truthful. Jason was never very good at hiding things from her, and this trait of his was amplified when he was drunk. With her own powers of persuasion, she was fairly confident that she could find out anything that Jason was keeping secret from her, although he would protest stubbornly. After all, she had found out the last time he had fallen in love with her and now he had started again. He confused her at times, she couldn't understand what had caused the change and he claimed he didn't either. She hated to see him like this but she had to tell him the truth. At least, what appeared to be the truth.


	6. God Or Not, He Will Fall

**To make up for the dullness of the last chapter, this chapter will be the opposite hopefully, (spoiler ish) despite a lot of jumping back and forth between memory and present time. My thanks to any reading. The Night Angel Trilogy belongs to Brent Weeks.**

The galleon groaned and creaked as it lumbered into port, Jason's green eyes scanning the docks for potential threats and guards of any description. It would be most unfortunate to be forced to kill before he had even set foot on Khalidorian land. He did not see any danger (as if the word even had any meaning to him anymore) but he did see suffering and signs of oppression even in plain sight. The common folk cowered in their filthy, tattered robes when a noble passed them by and beatings by the city guard for no other reason than sport showed the infamous brutality Khalidor had become feared for. Under its fearsome Godking, Khalidor was a place where the strong prospered and the weak suffered. Here, only the most powerful and bloodthirsty thrived, and that maxim fit Jason like a glove. He had come for blood, and the head of its Godking. This was the target that the Sa'kage had demanded from him. They had not told him why he had such a difficult target, and he didn't care as usual. He had to kill the lord of this god-forsaken land or die trying.

The tavern was even worse than those in Cenaria, but the room was literally dirt cheap and due to the cruelty that permeated the very air in Khalidor, no one asked any questions when a dark robed foreigner appeared from the darkness, bristling with weaponry. The bed was filled with lice and other insects, and the floor was covered in filth. "Reminds me of home" Jason thought grimly as he sat down on the edge of the bed and let his mind wander to the past…

A pair of golden eyes scanned the rooftops vigilantly and was rewarded with the discovery of a figure striding arrogantly across the buildings. She watched as he made his way confidently to her balcony, and planted a kiss on her cheek. "What after you after now, my love?" She poked him in the chest playfully and kissed him back. "Why do I have to be after anything?" Jason smirked as he leant into the column and crossed his arms. "Although, now you mention it, do you remember that trinket I asked you to hold on to?" He watched happily as she smiled and walked over the ornate wooden box Jason had given her and retrieved a small wooden charm. He gave her a genuine smile and reached for it, but she pulled it away teasingly and stuck her tongue out. "No… You have to do something for me first…" Jason raised an eyebrow in false shock and got a mock scowl for his efforts. He kissed her lightly on the neck and she poked him again playfully. "No, no, no… not that. My parents are downstairs, you rogue. No, I need you to help a friend of mine out. She's having problems with men near that tavern you're always in. Can you talk to them?" Jason pulled away from her and cracked his knuckles absently. "Of course I can. I'll be back later". He kissed her on the forehead and swung over the railing to fall to the nearest rooftop and from there descended to street level and out of sight.

Jason Drake opened his eyes and instinctively found the hilt of his knife. Checking the room and seeing that his continued survival was assured, he lay back and rested his head in his hands. He didn't usually dream and very rarely cast his memory to his life before he entered the profession of murder. He cast it aside and looked out his windows, complete with broken shutters. He closed his eyes and listened to the foul tapestry of the port's atmosphere. The sounds of muggings and rape filled his ears, in particular a shrill shriek that originated from further up the cobbled street. He opened his emerald eyes and saw an attractive young woman with blonde curls fleeing a brutish bald man with a hungry look in his eyes. Jason snarled and measured up the situation. What would his former lover do? He wondered, but reaching his answer with a snort. Nothing, probably. I'm going to take action. He vaulted over the windowsill and dropped to the street below, using his Talent to soften the fall. The blonde wench ran straight past him in terror, as he brought his arm back and launched his knife into the heart of her assailant. As she froze and stared at her mystery saviour, hands covering her mouth, he searched his thoughts for answers. Why had he, on impulse, rescued a stranger, in front of a crowded street? He was trying to keep a low profile. Gwen will never let me hear the end of this when she finds out. The distressed blonde damsel ventured tentatively towards him, and whispered "Sir?". He shook her off, wrapped himself in shadows, and disappeared silently into the darkness, alone with his memories again. A familiar face watched him vanish, and smiled.

"So laddie, you been to see that wench of yours again? You tell her you're a thief yet, and that she's holding the king of Cenaria's prized possession for you?" The head of Cenaria's Thieves Guild, Varric Terah, looked amused at Jason, who glared back at him. "No." The response was short and direct, and Varric chuckled. "Lying to a lover then. I can't see that going badly at all, lad" He snatched a tankard of ale from a barmaid, the girl jumping at the sudden motion. The stocky master of thieves chuckled again and drank, ale spilling into his white beard that matched his thinning, snowy hair. Jason rolled his eyes, and shot a reply. "I'll tell her when this is all over. And I'll stop being a thief. It always leads to arguments and I hate upsetting her. Besides we love each other. Forever. We'll get around anything". He drank from his own tankard, and frowned as he heard an unusual sound in the cacophony of the tavern. He turned and noticed guards trawling through the rabble, searching for him and Varric by the looks of things. He turned back to Varric, who was chuckling as usual. "I remember when I was as naïve as you, laddie. Behind you." Jason nodded and leapt to his feet, thrusting his head back into the face of the guard behind him. The guard tumbled back into a patron, spilling beer across a group of drunken workers, and all hell broke loose. Jason heard Varric's throaty laugh "You've lit a powder keg now, boy" as he escaped the tavern, which had descended into a drunken brawl.

The weak Khalidorian dawn invaded his room as Jason climbed back through the window and onto the lice infested bed, and sprang straight back out as he heard a throat being cleared. His eyes flashed around the room and settled on a cloaked figure sat in the corner of the room. The dark shape spoke in an ancient whisper "I had to check it was actually you, lad. How've you been, Jason?" The man rose to his feet and his shock of white hair led to recognition igniting in Jason's eyes. "Varric?" The master thief nodded, and crossed his arms. Jason turned to the rickety table and scooped up a small bottle of strong liquor. He took a swig and handed it to Varric. "What are you doing here, old man?" Varric swallowed a mouthful of liquid before handing the bottle back to Jason and spat. "Still as disrespectful as ever. You should know why I'm here in this pit of a country." Jason stiffened and snarled back a response, "No. Enlighten me." Varric stared at his former pupil for a moment and spoke slowly and precisely, "Very well. I shall speak slowly so you understand. Your woman sold us all out. We all had to flee Cenaria and I ended up here. Understand now, boy?" Varric took a threatening step towards Jason, who remained impassive. "Yes, I remember. Listen, Varric, I'll make it up to you. When I'm done here, you can help yourself to any of the Godking's treasures." Varric shot him a look of surprise, "And how can you be so sure of that? Jason smirked and his eyes lit up with that cocky confidence Varric remembered all too well. "I'm going to kill the Godking, old friend." "Oh is that all, lad?" Varric shook his head in disbelief and gestured at the liquor bottle. "Pass me that, I'm going to need it." Jason threw it to him, and rolled his eyes as the old thief drained it. He lay back onto the bed as Varric exited the room, shouting "If you need me lad, the new guild meets in the abandoned warehouse near the docks." Jason uncorked a fresh bottle and began to drink, and replayed the time when he was young and naïve back through his mind.

Jason's thoughts were wild and unfocused as he raced across the rooftops towards the balcony. What if the guards had found out she was hiding it for him? Before he became aware of it, he had found her balcony and entered her room. Her empty room. He glanced everywhere, searching for anything. He saw the wooden box, ajar, and a note lying beside it. He picked it up and read it. "Jason. I know what that trinket is now, and I gave it back to the king and told him about you. I know you're a liar. I don't love you anymore. I'm staying with a friend tonight. This is it. Goodbye." He set down the note and sighed, but exiting the room the way he came and ran back across the tiles to the chaos his world had become.

The warehouse was derelict, but not abandoned. Jason stared at Varric, who took a draw from a cigar protruding from his mouth. He removed it and asked without turning to Jason, "So, killing the Godking eh lad? A much bigger task than picking pockets like when I first found you." Jason ignored him and his rhetoric, forming a question of his own. "So where's this guild then?" Varric took another draw from the cigar and walked over to a pile of barrels. "Third from the left, second one in… Ah. Here we are lad." He kicked the barrel aside, revealing a small trapdoor. He opened it and climbed inside gesturing for Jason to follow.

The caverns below the warehouse were a maze of small wooden buildings and impromptu markets, a warren like city underneath Khalidor's main port. The caves were illuminated by torches and filled with the coming and going of thieves, smugglers and other wretches, who nodded in respect to Varric and gave Jason a wide berth. He was an indomitable black bear in a den of jackals and rightly feared, there were only two desperate attempts to mug them by the time they had reached their destination. "A tavern. In a cave?" Jason eyed up the bleak looking building and muttered "There's a first." Varric ushered him inside and lead him to a private room in the rear of the building. "So. The Godking then." Varric sat down and looked sternly at Jason, his usual joviality absent. Jason also took a seat and nodded. "For the last time Varric, yes. The Godking. I need a map of the capital and his castle and times of all his guards' schedules. Can you do this for me?" Jason stared by at the old thief, who shrugged slowly. "I can try Jason, but I'm not making any promises." Varric sat back in his chair and pulled out a pack of cards and began to deal. Jason glanced at him quizzically, then picked up his hand and began to play.

"You've already got a reputation in these parts, lad" Varric stated blankly, observing Jason for a reaction. "How is that possible? I saved one woman." Jason remained impassive as ever. The retort was just as emotionless. "Well it seems the entire street saw it, and news of goodwill spreads like wildfire in Khalidor. The people are desperate for something to believe in, something that doesn't leave them with nothing and it seems they believe in their new Dark Angel." Jason rolled his eyes. "You must be joking Varric. That is a ridiculous title. We both know I'm no angel." Varric's face split into a mirthful grin, "Aye lad, but that's the title you have nonetheless now. And I believe the best way to get to the Godking is to unite the people against him. Show them he can be challenged". Jason flung his cards onto the table, winning the round and taking a drink before replying "Varric, that could cause a rebellion very easily and surely security becomes tighter than a Ceuran whore when there's a rebellion going on." Varric chuckled again and shook his head slowly, dealing the next hand deftly. "You'd be surprised Jason. The Godking is almost as arrogant as you. He believes he cannot be killed, not by us mere mortals anyway. Security wouldn't be an issue." Varric won this round, and took a drink. "Very well Varric, but are you sure the people will rise up? They're hardly the bravest of sorts. You can't expect me to place my faith in these whipped slaves". Varric sighed. "Jason, you need to take risks. Both in love and in war. If the risk fails, you try a new tack. But if it pays off, you'll wonder why you ever doubted it."

"There's a room upstairs if you need it, by the way." Varric spoke without looking up from his hand, even to Jason's reply. "I have a room already." Varric played his winning hand – a queen and a jester – and dealt again. "That's up there, in the port. This tavern is protected by my Thieves Guild. Safest place for miles around. And considering what you've got planned boy, safety is everything. No one defies the Godking." As if to prove his point, Varric threw down his hand of three kings triumphantly. "Ha. Beat that lad." Jason flashed an arrogant smile and revealed his own cards, to Varric's surprise. "Four aces. Looks like the king isn't as untouchable as you thought, old man." With that, Jason left, thinking back to the beginning of this grand escapade, wondering if he was tackling too great a force.

"So… When do you leave for this big job in Khalidor?" Gwen pulled the most innocent face she could, but Jason narrowed his eyes at her. "What do you really want to know, Gwen?" She sighed, and spoke with rare severity. "I want to know why you are so crazy about this woman. You've never been that drunk. I've seen less beer at a king's wedding than what you drank. What makes her so special to you?" She stared at him, searching him for answers. He stared across the city from the balcony next to his bedroom and replied icily "She isn't special. Don't worry yourself Gwen, she means nothing to me. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go." He stood, made a short bow, and made for the door. Gwen's face became a mask of anguish as she turned to face his back. "You can lie to me all you want Jason. But don't lie to yourself"


	7. The Art Of Deception

**So, it's been a while. When the rigours of life become too great to bear, it's easy to lose yourself in writing, whether it's your own or someone else's. As usual, the Night Angel Trilogy belongs to Brent Weeks.**

**The Art of Deception**

Jason's vision was hampered by the darkness; nevertheless the outline of the guard did not escape him. It would take weeks for Varric to acquire the maps and other equipment necessary for his true mission here, as compensation he had agreed to aid the thieves in their illicit profession. As the guard disappeared from sight, Jason signalled 'move' and walked out from behind the pillar that had fulfilled its purpose as a hiding spot, shadowed by the blackened form of a dozen thieves. As he picked at the lock, he heard a giggled sigh from behind him. He sighed and turned to face the culprit, a petite female thief with short brunette hair named Tessa. She shooed him away from the lock, and picked it herself, shaking her head in amusement and smiling at him. "It's easier if you don't force it in… Oh shut up". Jason strode through the now-opened door, smiling to himself as he assessed the situation. As their target was of great importance to the lord of the port (Jason hadn't remembered his name), the myriad traps were of high quality. They were also unseen, but they must be there. Tessa laughed and waltzed past Jason, who pulled her back sharply. Before she could protest, he drew a goblet from a nearby table and threw it into her intended path. As it hit the floor, spikes shot upwards from the floor. Tessa looked at Jason in shock, who stared at the spikes in contempt. "How cliché. You lot, stay here. I'll find the disarming lever." As he vanished into the darkness, Tessa began to walk in the opposite direction. "Where are you going?" One of the men shot the question after her, who responded "To find the switch to turn the traps off…" she added with a smile "I don't have to obey his word just because he's a man." With that, she ran deeper down the first corridor and out of sight.

The lever creaked into place as Jason kicked it into the "off" setting. The rest of the traps had been as horribly predictable as the first. More spike traps, swinging blocks, pitfalls…. The only danger to him in this place was complacency rising from utter boredom. There had been no guards, and few inhabitants. The sporadic dwellers appeared to be maids and cleaners, and Jason had concluded that this building was a sort of trophy hall for the port's master, a museum of all his conquests, and it was one of these trophies that the thieves had come to "collect". It was a small, unassuming crimson jewel that Khalidor's fleets had stolen from a foreign civilisation, but the ruby was ultimately unimportant to Jason. A murderous itch had captured his attention, and his true purpose that Varric had asked him to carry out was not to steal the jewel. For his perceived wrongs, against the people of the city and those he had conquered, the lord of the port had to die, to slake both Jason's blood thirst and the need for vengeance shared by every inhabitant of the city. With a hiss of steel, he drew two daggers from their sheaths at his hip, and entered the main office. Glancing round the room, he quickly formulated a plan. He impaled the cheap plaster wall with a dagger and began to climb upwards. As he reached the rafters, he clambered across a beam until he was directly above the desk that lay in the centre of the room. He settled into a crouch, hanging above the room like a statue of the Reaper and waited for his victim.

After a few hours, a sudden commotion brought Jason's attention to the door, which burst open and a tall, thin man in naval uniform marched in. He was followed by a procession of guards, with a limp figure. Jason supressed a snarl. They had Tessa. "We found her after the ruby, sir. When the alarm was sounded, all the other thieves fled. This one is the only one we've got." The guard's bland monotone ground against Jason's nerves, as his mind raced with the new stimuli. A plan formed, and he tensed, waiting in the darkness to pounce. "Well, well, well…. A thief. Hardly Surprising. Take her to the dungeons and do with her what you will". The port master waved his hand dismissively an even from his lofty vantage point, Jason could see the carnal greed in the guards' eyes, each man looking at Tessa and each other. They hurriedly led, slamming the door behind them. As they departed, Jason took a breath, shifted his centre of gravity and dropped from the beam. He fell upon the man like the Dark Angel he had become to the common people, his daggers plunging into the back of the port's former master, who formed an undignified cushion for Jason's fall. The murder was quick, efficient and most importantly, silent. Jason crouched by the bloody, hollow shell of a man and took a set of rusty iron keys. He smiled and stood upright, and escaped the room, locking the door behind him. He strained his ears, and began to pursue the guards, and Tessa.

After traversing many dark corridors and a flight of worn, stone stairs, Jason tracked the guards to the dungeon. All forays with the guards had been over quickly and often before Jason had even been detected. The longest fight was when three guards had, by foul luck, discovered him searching the cells for Tessa. The first had lunged with his sword, but Jason knocked it aside and slashed his knife at the man's throat, finding its mark with slicing sound of metal tearing through flesh. Jason dodged the second's thrust with a quick roll, and brought his weapon across the back of the man's legs, hamstringing him. The last guard dropped his weapon and ran, but Jason was faster. He surged forward, and leapt off the stone wall, pouncing on the man like a lion on a gazelle, and sunk the knife into his jugular. The hard, stone floor quickly turned red with blood, and the killer stood to face the incapacitated guard, who had begun to crawl on ruined legs towards an imagined sanctuary. Jason quickly caught up, and yanked the man's head, exposing his throat. The guard whimpered, and babbled like a scared child. "Please, sir, don't kill me…. Take the thief, she's in the last cell on the right…" his prattling was cut short by Jason's blade whipping across his throat. He withdrew the keys and unlocked the cited door, lifting the unconscious figure within into his arms and made for the exit of the charnel house.

He stared into the dark room he had claimed for her. Jason had returned Tessa to the tavern in the thief-city below the port, demanding Varric get the best people to look after her. He had done what he could, but that had been little enough. While life and death were two sides of the same coin, it was not as easy as simply reversing what Jason knew of death. She had not woken since her capture, and Jason was, despite himself, worried. He heard a sound behind him, but recognised the stench of cheap ale and cheap women that was Varric's. Jason remained impassive as the guild master broke the silence. "It's not your fault lad…" Jason cut him off with a glare, and then returned his gaze to the immobile thief. "Then explain how I can't care for those I love." Varric raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realise you two were that close, lad. I know she liked you but… Well, you've changed; I didn't think you'd remained the romantic type." Jason scoffed and walked away from the makeshift ward, Varric in tow. "Don't let my friend Gwen hear that, she'll never let me live it down." His expression turned grave. "Besides, old friend, a lot has changed since I left the guild". Varric laid a gnarled hand on Jason's shoulder. "Deception, betrayal and treachery were always your forte, lad. With your skills, you could have been rich. Why did you leave the guild?" Jason turned, his eyes dark. "Those could have given me the world, but they took the only thing that truly mattered, and I couldn't get her back when I wanted her most."


End file.
